his hand not desisted
     From striking; the war-blade struck on her head then
     A battle-song greedy.  The stranger perceived then
     The sword would not bite, her life would not injure,
     But the falchion failed the folk-prince when straitened: 
     Erst had it often onsets encountered,
     Oft cloven the helmet, the fated one’s armor;
     ’Twas the first time that ever the excellent jewel
     Had failed of its fame.  Firm-mooded after,
     Not heedless of valor, but mindful of glory
     Was Higelac’s kinsman; the hero-chief angry
     Cast then his carved-sword covered with jewels
     That it lay on the earth, hard and steel-pointed;
     He hoped in his strength, his hand-grapple sturdy. 
     So any must act whenever he thinketh
     To gain him in battle glory unending,
     And is reckless of living.  The lord of the War-Geats
     (He shrank not from battle) seized by the shoulder
     The mother of Grendel; then mighty in struggle
     Swung he his enemy, since his anger was kindled,
     That she fell to the floor.  With furious grapple
     She gave him requital early thereafter,
     And stretched out to grab him; the strongest of warriors
     Faint-mooded stumbled, till he fell in his traces,
     Foot-going champion.  Then she sat on the hall-guest
     And wielded her war-knife wide-bladed, flashing,
     For her son would take vengeance, her one only bairn,
     His breast-armor woven bode on his shoulder;
     It guarded his life, the entrance defended
     ’Gainst sword-point and edges.  Ecgtheow’s son there
     Had fatally journeyed, champion of Geatmen,
     In the arms of the ocean, had the armor not given,
     Close-woven corselet, comfort and succor,
     And had God Most Holy not awarded the victory,
     All-knowing lord; easily did heaven’s
     Ruler most righteous arrange it with justice;
     Uprose he erect ready for battle. 
     Then he saw ’mid the war-gems a weapon of victory,
     An ancient giant-sword, of edges a-doughty,
     Glory of warriors:  of weapons ’twas choicest,
     Only ’twas larger than any man else was
     Able to bear to the battle-encounter,
     The good and splendid work of the giants. 
     He grasped then the sword-hilt, knight of the Scyldings,
     Bold and battle-grim, brandished his ring-sword. 
     Hopeless of living, hotly he smote her,
     That the fiend-woman’s neck firmly it grappled,
     Broke through her bone-joints, the bill fully pierced her
     Fate-cursed body, she fell to the ground then: 
     The hand-sword was bloody, the hero exulted.

[Fifty years have elapsed.  The aged Beowulf has died from the injuries received in his struggle with the Fire Drake.  His body is burned, and a barrow erected.]